


Far-Reaching Hand, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-06 12:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4221472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Final closure for two brothers in Valinor...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far-Reaching Hand, The

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Author's notes: Firstly, thanks loads and loads to Nemis and Ithilwen for  
insightful beta-reading!

Secondly, there's actually nothing in canon to support some events in this  
story, however as there's nothing to disprove them as well, I took the  
liberty of assuming they may have happened.

Thirdly, this story, chiefly with its motifs, compliments "My Father's  
Hands", though it's not directly related to it. The motif of the shaping  
and destroying hand is what I have found in the core of Feanor's story, and  
both fics came from my strange delight in exploring it

 

 

 

 

It stood in the outskirts of the city, reaching for the sky as if it sought  
to grab hold of the many stars and bring their fair radiance down the world  
below. It stood in the coming twilight, gold and red of the receding day,  
still and beautiful, as if removed from the world it stood upon, a piece of  
something greater, stranger. Something distant and awe-inspiring, not to be  
understood, merely gazed upon in realization of its greatness, ever knowing  
it cannot be bested.

Tall it stood a short walk from the white towers of Tirion the Fair,  
blazing in unholy light in the shifting shadows of sunset, a mighty hand  
carved in stone, striving upward. Around it was grass, flat earth, a thin  
road, there it stood in the middle of the peace and endless space, as far  
as the eye can see, down to the ocean and farther. Placed on an altar of  
sorts, a sleek stone sprouting from the ground, it cast a long shadow down  
on the greenery, obscuring the light of the fading sun from the lone figure  
standing there in the patch of darkness. A lone Quendi stood motionless,  
golden hair and silver garments denied the light to play on them. Silently  
he was gazing high upward at the hand, seeking to encompass it all with one  
gaze, as impossible as that may be.

The shadows lengthened. Wind rose, playing amid the tall stems of grass,  
sweeping sand and dust away to the sea. The light turned from gold to the  
shades of fire, cast in odd angles on the awesome hand. Another, smaller  
figure came along the trail, gazing not at the statue but at the Elf  
marveling at it. They were alike in face and body and in the melodious  
voices that sounded in a low greeting, tossed to the air to be caught at  
once by the wind.

"So it was true, and you are back," the newcomer said quietly. He came to  
stand side by side with the other Elf, his eyes avoiding the graceful  
stone, the graceful, unknowing stone, reaching to the sky, ever oblivious  
of their presence.

Slowly, at first in silence, came a nod in reply. At first, no words were  
needed.

He replied in a voice that had age in it, age not in body, not seeking to  
wear down what could not be worn. Heaviness of the soul it was, heaviness  
of sight, of having seen too much or perhaps known too much, or perhaps an  
inability to forget.

"You may say that," Fingolfin, once High King of the Noldor, told his  
younger brother. "You may say that I am back."

Sunlight sought to burst from behind the stone hand, rays of radiance  
glittering, reflecting off the polished surface. It was as if Anar herself  
has decided on some odd whim to come down from the sky and settle amid the  
outspread fingers and show its glow to Aman from within.

"Were you responsible for this?" Fingolfin asked suddenly.

Discomfort was evident as Finarfin shifted his gaze. He had constantly  
avoided the statue so far, avoiding the light in the process. His voice was  
lower yet, haunted, yet clear: "I was."

His brother nodded, once, in a slow, thoughtful way. "And is it for...?"

"Perhaps," Finarfin snapped back quickly, then looked away, then  
unwillingly upward to his older brother's eyes. He sighed darkly, his hands  
fled behind his back, fingers tangling and untangling in tension and guilt.

"In the city..." he whispered. "In the city, they call it the Hand of  
Feanor."

"I thought as much," Fingolfin simply replied.

There was no change in his stance, nor in his face. His eyes were devoid of  
expression, an empty, dark blue, not even with the glitter and liveliness  
of the endless sea.

He stepped forward, and he stroked the smooth stone with one hesitant hand,  
feeling the surface sleek and cool and unyielding. All day the sun shone on  
it and yet it would not warm. It was taller than him, reaching defiantly  
up, out, away.

It was perfect.

"He would have loved it," he said.

Finarfin laughed shortly without joy. "He loved nothing which was not of  
his own making."

"How wrong you are..." there was no sadness in the older Elf's voice, calling  
it sadness was not right. Nor was it joy, nor was it anything discernable,  
maybe regret, maybe.

"He would have loved it, its reach, its shadow... the way it clashes with the  
view... you understand him better than you think."

"I understood him," Finarfin corrected. "He is gone."

A smile abruptly played on Fingolfin's face, not grim, but not happy.  
Content, in a strange way, almost gloating. "From this land or from your  
mind?"

Finarfin gritted his teeth. Remaining still, of a sudden, had a cost.

"I do not seek to tease you, little brother," Fingolfin said softly, but he  
did not look back. All his attention still was on the stone. The sun was  
descending, swiftly disappearing behind it. Shadow was cast all around on  
the grass, shadow on the trail and on the sea in the horizon. Shadows crept  
down the towers in Tirion, far away. "I have spoken with him, you know."

Finarfin was taken aback despite himself. He took a step, just one step  
closer. "In the Halls?"

"In the Halls. I fear we had no choice. His was not the grace I was given."

The younger Elf surprised himself with the relief erupting into his voice.  
"Good."

"He thinks so, as well."

Darkness was spreading slowly, in small patches. Fingolfin's eyes,  
concealed in the shadows of statue and sunset, were set away from the  
light. Finarfin found he could no longer look anywhere without seeing the  
red taint of the fading day.

"It is ended, then," he found he was saying quietly. "So ends the tale of  
the Noldor, the folly of the Noldor, nothing left to remember it by."

"Save the Hand of Feanor," Fingolfin replied, but he was not truly speaking  
to his brother anymore. His gaze was elsewhere, elsewhen, in other lands,  
in other times and dreams. "I regret he cannot see this. This would be  
fitting, closure of sorts... a sure sign of his victory."

Finarfin narrowed blue eyes with a dangerous gleam to them. "Victory? His  
was no victory."

"His was a greater victory than you imagine, little brother," came the  
reply, shadowy and whispered, echoing in the silence of the open grassland,  
the hand a great form dark in the last rays of sunlight in a strange day.

Not long did Finarfin consider his reply. It tore out of him, angry and  
defiant. "A great victory, surely. Almost all our people are slain. His  
sons are dead, his poor wife... And did he regain his precious jewels? Not  
one, not a single one. All that he has left behind is ashes in the wind."

"Save the Hand of Feanor," Fingolfin said again.

"Yet I have created that."

"Have you indeed?"

Finarfin inhaled sharply. He stumbled away, looking down to the darkening  
earth.

"He won," Fingolfin said quietly. "He won, in the end. Have you not heard  
what they sing in Tirion by moonlight? Have you not heard...? The song is  
woven of the pride of the Noldor... of glory, valor, love and pain on distant  
shores... of Feanor Lightshaper, whose prideful song was sung... in ancient  
lands, in ancient days, when still the world was young. That they sing in  
Tirion, little brother, they sing of the many wondrous deeds of Feanor  
Lightshaper."

Finarfin's eyes grew wide. His voice broke. "They sing of you as well, and  
fairer were your deeds."

"Though we had both paid a price too terrible to count." The air was  
cooling slowly; the great stone hand became icy to the touch. Darker red  
fell upon the grass, upon the statue.

"Many tides have risen on the shores of Alqualonde," Finarfin managed to  
say at last.

Fingolfin looked down at last, down at his hands. "The tide can wash the  
blood away, then?"

"That is not what I have said!" The younger Elf at last erupted, throwing  
his hands up in the air in helpless, dark frustration. "But do you say the  
songs can wash it?"

"Not for me," the once King deadpanned. "Not for me."

"Then why for him?"

"Because he thought the price worthwhile."

At last Finarfin could take no more. He rushed forward, grabbed his  
brother's hand, tearing him away from the Hand. The sun plunged into the  
ocean, a beautiful ball of unleashed flame, painting the sky in one last  
blaze of glory. The two Elves sat on the grass before the statue, now none  
of them could avoid looking at it, seeing behind in the last light of day.

Silence overtook them, the wind was blowing, whistling among the tall  
grass. In the distance, the towers of Tirion were alight with candles in  
many windows, seeking to ease the dark. Soon they will return there, and  
the remaining Noldor of Aman would welcome their King, again given flesh.  
Some glory would be restored, some, at least by this.

"What do you mean..." Finarfin whispered, "worthwhile?"

Fingolfin's gaze clung to the light. "I mean precisely that. He thinks it  
was worthwhile, the darkness, the pain, the blood, for the songs. And he  
would think it more worthwhile yet for this beautiful thing, this  
beautiful, beautiful stone..."

The air caught in Finarfin's throat; he felt something sting in his eyes.  
He made no move to wipe them, no attempt to breathe.

But the tip of the sun could now be seen far away. The shadows settled upon  
the Hand in vast shapes, like holes in the stone, wounds in the cool gray  
flesh.

"Will you destroy it now?" The older Elf quietly asked.

Finarfin choked out: "I... cannot let them remember..."

"Can you not?" swiftly Fingolfin rose. He pulled his brother up, up to his  
feet. He unsheathed his long sword, thrusting it into the smaller hands.  
"Then destroy it, destroy it now, this beautiful stone, this far reaching  
hand, this work of art of yours. Destroy it, I am waiting."

The light disappeared fully behind the darkening horizon. The Hand stood  
stark against endless night sky, the distant lights of the towers of Tirion  
playing across it from afar.

Finarfin swung the sword high above his head, and crying out forced it  
down, down upon the Hand, but not upon the Hand, down on the altar, down to  
be shattered to slivers, scattered on the grass.

He breathed in, and fell to his knees.

"I can't..." he whispered. "Iluvatar help me, but I can't..."

Fingolfin stepped forward, settling down by his brother. Fondly he stroked  
the golden head, answering in a whisper, distant as the city lights.

"Then tell me, Finarfin... was this Hand meant to commemorate our brother... or  
everything that he was and we both cannot be?"

The last light of day was gone, the sky a black velvet woven with  
glittering gems. Finally, under the shadow of the Hand, as always it was,  
finally their tears came. And they sat there together in the darkness until  
the Morning Star rose up.

 

 

~~End~~


End file.
